


and all to pet a cat

by fakeCRfan



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, Long-Distance Relationship, Pining, Soul Bond, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28202064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakeCRfan/pseuds/fakeCRfan
Summary: Agnes was never meant to know touch. Being bound to Gertrude changes that.
Relationships: Agnes Montague/Gertrude Robinson, Minor Agnes Montague/Jack Barnabas, Minor Agnes Montague/Jude Perry
Comments: 14
Kudos: 24
Collections: Rusty Quill Secret Santa 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ostentenacity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ostentenacity/gifts).



> So, this is mostly canon compliant with a few divergences: the main one being that Agnes and Gertrude meet more than once (twice, exactly, in this fic) and this is implied to change other events, but the fic doesn't go into detail about the ripple effects outside of what it means for Agnes and Gertrude themselves. 
> 
> Anyway, here's Agnes being touch starved and pining. Hope you enjoy!

Agnes killed her caretaker with a touch when she was six years old.

This was not her first kill, but it is the first one she remembers. A woman with a severe jaw and a shaven head, high ranking in the cult at the time. Agnes had liked her best at the time. She would read Agnes stories in the evening. She even touched Agnes now and then, and did not die. Little strokes of fingers, all brusque and unsentimental. Just enough to help Agnes brush her hair or tie her shoes.

One day, Agnes tripped and fell. A simple thing. She reached out as she fell, and the woman grabbed her am and immediately went up in flames, screaming. In a moment, there was nothing left but wax and bone and the smell of scorching that Agnes had been born familiar to.

Agnes wonders: why that moment? Why, when she had always survived Agnes before?

"The ones that died were not true,'' Arthur told her when she asked. ''If they remained aligned with the spirit of our god, then they would have been favored. If they do not come back, then they were not faithful as they should have been.’’

Perhaps, Agnes thinks, such a touch had been blasphemy. The act of reaching out to steady a child in your care is deeply inimical to what they are. Or perhaps not the act itself. Perhaps it was whatever had gone through the woman's mind and heart--some blasphemy of protection, of closeness or warmth or light.

Agnes does not remember the woman's name.

Agnes does not know how the woman's touch truly had felt, either. The woman's skin had turned to liquid wax in all the moments Agnes had leaned into it, slipping through Agnes's fingers as nimbly as water. In the moment of her death, it hadn't even been liquid but an explosion of ash, flying from Agnes's grasp like feathers on the wind.

Agnes was not meant to know touch, and so she does not. She is not meant to touch, she is meant to have everything twist and curl and burn and melt before her, until the world itself burns away.

* * *

Agnes has no warning before it happens. One moment she is with Diego and Arthur, ready to ascend and to watch the world burn away. The next, she is out of her body. She sees trees and highlands somewhere she does not know, and when she looks down she sees an insidious web wrapping around her. Before she can move, she feels threads wrapping around her lungs, threading through her nerves and tightening so she can scarcely breathe.

In that moment, she sees another woman. Young, hissing, jaw clenched determined even as she herself is doubled over in pain.

Agnes does not speak to her. She does not say _what is happening_ or _who are you?_ She struggles, but the webs are all around her. She sees the scorched earth of her destiny vanish from her vision. She reaches for it in a panic, but does not let her mouth open to scream _my world!_ in despair.

The woman sees Agnes too. The woman somehow hears what Agnes refuses to say, and sneers at her through her agony.

“Fuck you,’’ the woman says. “Fuck your cult, fuck your apocalypse, fuck your world!’’

In this way, destiny is derailed, and Gertrude Robinson becomes the most important person in Agnes’s life.

* * *

Agnes, who was not meant to know touch, comes to know how the touch of a cat.

Agnes feels the creature under her fingers. A thousand smooth strands running through them. The pressure of another creature leaning into her hand. The steady rise and fall of tiny lungs in a delicate ribcage.

"There, there,'' says a voice. Agnes can scarcely recognize it as the voice that had snarled at her in the binding circle. It is a painfully quiet whisper, as though afraid of being caught loving something. "There, little thing.''

Agnes’s chest tightens and she gasps. The second she opens her eyes, though, she is back alone in a quiet room, where other cult members wait at the door. There is no cat, and no soft woman’s voice.

Agnes closes her eyes again, and it all comes back. She is outside of a very different building, under a blue sky where smokeless cloud pass. There is a slight ache in her back from how she hunched over to pet the creature. She can feel a smile pulling at the corners of her lips: an alien sensation to Agnes.

This is the first gift Gertrude Robinson unwittingly gives her.

* * *

She writes to Gertrude Robinson, or tries to. Pencils turn to ash in her fingers, and pens bend and melt.

> _'My Dear Gertrude, I am certain you know of me. You must, considering--_

And then, the paper burns.

Agnes considers dictating it to one of the others. But then they would know what she has to say, and that makes her recoil. She does not want them to know what she has to say to Gertrude Robinson. She wants to have words that are her own, or hers to Gertrude, that the cult does not get to read or say.

> _Gertrude, I have seen much of you recently, as I am sure you have of me. I know your name. I know what you have done. I see your house and the people you know and where you go whenever I close my eyes. Do you realize--_

The paper burns up again. Agnes grips the desk in frustrations, and it goes up in flame.

* * *

Gertrude is the most important person in Agnes’s life, and not in a way Gertrude seems to have anticipated.

Agnes now knows how it is to breathe air without the taste of sulfur. She knows the gentle warmth of a cup of coffee in one's hands (black with room for milk, like Gertrude always takes it). She knows the touch of a cat, the feeling of its thousand soft threads of fur and the rumble of its purr. She knows how food tastes when it doesn’t turn to ashes on your lips.

These are not things Agnes was meant to know. These are not things she is meant to have.

These are not things she gets to have.

The threads around Agnes’s lung tighten with each new thing she sees through Gertrude Robinson's eyes, each new thing she feels with Gertrude Robinson's soft human hands. She is learning every day, and each new knowledge fills her with longing deeply inimical to her purpose.

Agnes hears Gertrude’s voice too. A sharp, young voice, waning in and out of her ear with words never meant for Agnes herself.

_"Hello, Mr. Stacey? I was hoping to access the Archives for a statement...''_

_''Actually, I was wondering if maybe I could switch from the library? I have some experience...''_

_"Emma, will you come with me? I know the Archives aren't... I know it's not glamorous. But there's work to be done, and I_ _don’t think there’s anyone I trust more_ _.''_

Agnes knows in the first two years after Gertrude’s meddling that she won’t destroy the world. Not just because she can’t—but because she doesn’t want to, now. She wants this, what Gertrude has and does not appreciate. What Gertrude gives her unwillingly.

“I can’t,’’ she tells Arthur, when he asks. The look on his face, on all of their faces, lets her know that she can’t tell them she doesn’t want to.

"We’ll kill her,'' Arthur says, when Agnes tells him. "We’ll cut the bitch's throat.''

So Agnes lies.

"If she dies, I will die with her, and we will not be able to complete the ritual,’’ Agnes tells them. “Keep her alive.''

* * *

Agnes has to write slowly, and write short notes, else they are burned. Still she finally manages to get one out, and send it without the others knowing.

> _Gertrude. We don't have to be enemies. Find me._

Agnes sees the moment Gertude holds the note, feels the sharp intake of air Gertrude takes. Agnes knows that Gertrude's lungs burn painfully, that they haven't stopped since she bound Agnes and that they burn even more painfully as she holds Agnes's words in her hands.

“What’s that?’’ asks the assistant with cobwebs in her hair. “The Death Messiah had a change of heart, then?’’

“Don’t be ridiculous.’’ Agnes can feel Gertrude's ragged exhale as she sits back in her chair. “There is no change of heart for such beings.’’

Gertrude gets a lighter, and Agnes watches the note she worked so hard on turn to ashes in a bin. Suddenly, Agnes feels small and weak lightheaded as she thinks of how long it took to write that, how much she felt, and how easily Gertrude casts all that aside.

Gertrude does not come to find her.

* * *

Gertrude is not one for the touch of her fellow humans, Agnes realizes. She stays away from people and bristles when they get too close. Still, Agnes knows new sensations every day. She closes her eyes, and she can feeling the cool reassuring touch of Gertrude's assistant touching her arm. She can feel brisk wind, water as it feels to humans. And of course, in the quiet moments no one else can see, Gertrude lets herself be soft with small animals, all of the iron melting away from her posture in the face of affection from another living being.

Gertrude wanted to cripple her, but instead she gives Agnes gift after gift. Sweet samplings of a life that Agnes would never get to live. Agnes feels Gertrude live her human life and she aches. She watches, she knows, she drinks in every detail there is about Gertrude Robinson, and feels something inside her go tight. 

There are webs accumulating in the corners of Gertrude’s office. That same sweet assistant plant her webs in Gertrude’s mind, with that cool touch. It is to be expected, perhaps, considering Gertrude's methods. Gertrude does not, cannot notice, but it makes Agnes’s stomach turn.

> _I don't want to complete the ritual._

One line at a time. Deep breaths between writing, to let out the scorching heat.

> _I see so much about you. I know you more than anyone, by virtue of what you've done. You are falling into the web's trap. Why can’t you see--_

No pouring out all her feelings or thoughts at once, lest she destroy it all.

> _Find me. We could foil fire and web both, if you would listen._

Agnes stopped, then. Her lungs constrict, and she feels a new pressure behind her eyes, Knowing all that Agnes had written as surely as Agnes has known details of Gertrude’s life.

"Gertrude,'' Agnes breathes.

And then as quickly as it came, the presence vanishes.

* * *

In the end, Agnes has to go to Gertrude first.

It is a tricky maneuver, to get away from the cult that always watches and guards her. It is trickier still, to follow Gertrude’s mind into tunnels where the Watcher can’t see their first meeting. By the time Gertrude feels her presence, it is too late for her to get away.

Agnes’s heart lifts to see her. She has seen her, but for some reason it is better in person. Gertrude is hunched, grey-haired even though she’s just in her thirties, worry lines already carved into her forehead. Yet the sight of her makes Agnes ache in the way people say the sight of beauty does.

"You,'' Gertrude spits. “Not enough to spy on my in my mind, then. You think you can--’’

Agnes grabs her, and kisses her.

Not the soft kind of kisses Agnes had been dreaming of for nights on end, though. It is a rushed moment of practicality. She grabs Gertrude's blouse to pull her down, without burning her chest or arms overmuch and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

It sears. Gertrude’s skin melts, and her hair singes. Gertrude’s knees go weak from pain. But the webs lacing through her burn away.

Gertrude elbows her away viciously, gasping.

“What--’’

“I’m sorry,’’ Agnes says.

“Why did you--’’

“It should scar, and your hair should hide it when it regrows, so you don’t have to tell anyone. I know you don’t like people to be able to see those thing, so I thought that would be best,’’ Agnes says. “But I am sorry.’’

"That.'' Gertrude takes deep breaths, mind racing. "Emma.''

Agnes nods. "The spider.'' Gertrude shakes. Agnes has a strange urge to reach out and touch her again, and she is not sure if it's because Gertrude's pain calls to her, or if she wishes to steady her. “I didn’t want you trapped.’’

Gertrude was sharp, so the realizations came quick after that. She can see in her memory now, all of the cobwebs. She closes her eyes, and Agnes knows it is to hold back tears. From the pain, or the loss of a trusted person, Agnes cannot say. 

"What do you want,'' Gertrude asks hoarsely, "'in exchange for that?''

Agnes tilts her head. "Kiss someone. On the lips.''

Gertrude blinks. “What?’’

Agnes shrugs. "I've never gotten to feel a real human kiss, like lovers do. I would like to.’’

She turns away, and feels Gertrude’s eyes piercing her as she leaves.

* * *

Agnes expects Gertrude will go to somewhere that men and women meet. She expects Gertrude will find some man, someone nonthreatening and unimportant to her. Someone who is interested enough to share a kiss and obliging enough to let Gertrude vanish after it with nothing else given.

Agnes does not expect Gertrude to pick a woman.

She much less does not expect Gertrude to pick a tall auburn haired woman, or for Gertrude to kiss the top of her head first, as though in reciprocation for their moment in the tunnels.

Agnes closes her eyes, and savored the feeling of lips upon hers, arms reaching around her and fingers threading through her hair.

It is sweet. It is everything she asked for. And it leaves her terribly hollow in her chest.

* * *

The tape recorder turns out to be the answer to Agnes's letter writing problems.

It arrives in a box without any signed note or explanation, but Agnes knows it is from Gertrude the second she touches it. It is another strange gift of their bond, she finds, that she can tell instantly what Gertrude has touched.

A tape recorder can still can melt if held too long, but Agnes only need to press buttons once, step away, and talk. In this way, she can get out more thoughts without destroying anything that she could with pen and paper.

Gertrude's box comes with a pre-recorded tape, too.

> _Agnes,_
> 
> _I have thought about our exchange, and what I have seen of you. I think you need not resign yourself to this dilemma you have found yourself in—not yet, at least._
> 
> _If it is keeps you from damaging others or attempting to burn the entire world to a crisp, I think returning your ability to touch will be an intersection of both of our goals. Let us not assume there is no way to help your condition yet, not when no one has tried._
> 
> _I will try and research the matter with the resources available to me. Right now, I am looking into several artifacts that curb the Desolation, with an eye for one that might tame your power. I’ll let you know more as my research continues._
> 
> _Let’s keep in touch. These should help, if you need to communicate for any reason. Destroy this tape when you have listened to it. I will do the same with anything you send me._

Agnes listens a dozen times. Afterwards, when she has to destroy it, she holds it tight to her chest and savors the feeling of it melting in her touch. She can sense the exact places Gertrude's fingers touched the tape, and Agnes aligns her own with the ghost of Gertrude's, imagining she could have a phantom of a shared touch.

She puts in a new tape, and presses the record button.

"Gertrude,'' she says into it, struggling to put her feelings into words. It feels like she hasn't said the name out loud nearly enough, for how much it consumes her thoughts. "Gertrude, Gertrude, _Gertrude—’’_


	2. Chapter 2

Gertrude sends her a cloak with a heavy aura in her next box. An artifact of what she calls the buried, something that smothers and contains. Gertrude cautions her about its effects, saying it may cause agony or asphyxiation, but it also seems to smother supernatural fires, so there is a chance--

It burns the second Agnes touches it, the same as anything else.

Agnes's voice wobbles when she speaks into the recorder after that. It hurts a bit, to record this and know Gertrude will hear her vulnerability. But it doesn't doesn't top her.

"'It didn't work, Gertrude.''

* * *

> _I think you saved your world by petting that cat, Gertrude. It changed everything for me. Is that something you planned, when you set about your ritual? Did you think to try and stop me with... confusion? Doubt? Longing?_
> 
> _You don't touch many people, Gertrude. I would, if I were you. I don't think I would be able to stop. I would hold hands and link arms with friends. I would hug anyone who would let me. I’d kiss strangers on the cheek. I’d find someone to love and kiss them every day._
> 
> _I don't understand you. You can do all of that any time, but instead you keep everyone far away._

* * *

Gertrude stops by a shelter to hold some cats, after Agnes sees her get the tape.

It hurts, strangely. It feels wonderful as it did the first time, of course. But it is so obviously a response on Gertrude's part, now. Something that she is doing for Agnes, as opposed to unintentional offerings Agnes steals from their bond. The deliberateness of it makes Agnes's chest ache. 

Agnes wraps arms around herself, and feels where Gertrude holds the little thing to her chest. She closes her eyes, and she can feel the movement of its lungs and the thrumming of its heart. It is wonderful. It is awful. Agnes wants to feel a living thing in her own arms, to have something press into her the way Gertrude allows so feel creatures to.

Agnes learns that she can can cry, that day.

* * *

> _I see so much of you and your doings, but I still find you a mystery. Do you think of me, as much as I think of you, Gertrude? Have I changed your life as much as you have mine?_
> 
> _I didn't understand what things felt like, before you. Did you know that? Do you know what that means, the profoundness of what you've done to me?  
> _
> 
> _I don't think you can._

* * *

Jude Perry is an act of desperation on Agnes's part.

She is newer than Diego or Arthur or the others, and the light in her eyes when she looks at Agnes is different from the way anyone else looks at her. For a while it is only looks. Only burning, worshipful gazes from a distance. Then, Jude makes her sacrifice and becomes one of them, an undying wax figure that burns all she touches.

Agnes gets her alone as soon as she can and clutches at her. She buries her face into Jude's neck. Her hot tears make holes in the wax that makes up her new image.

"'Woah, there,'' Jude says, sound absurdly pleased. "What's this about?''

"Touch me,'' Agnes says into her neck. "No one touches me.''

Jude laughs. The sound slaps Agnes against the face, cold and cruel. Still, Agnes buries herself deeper into her embrace.

"Jude,'' she says, and she knows her wretched pleading voice does not sound godlike, as Jude wants it to. "Please.''

"Alright, sweet thing,'' Jude purrs, stroking her hair. "We can do something about your more _human_ itches.’’

Jude gives way under Agnes's hands as much as anything else does. She slips through Agnes's fingers as liquid wax. Agnes touches her and indents are made on her flesh, with bubbling wax dripping down them. And so even this touch is unreal, slippery and tainted with the smell of burning.

But Agnes tried to bury herself in it regardless. Because this is the closest Agnes will ever get. Jude, comfortingly, is safe. Jude is not like a delicate cat, or like a woman who might reach out in love to a child. Jude is pure inferno. Which means no matter how Agnes dismantles her, Jude is awful enough that the Desolation will always bring her back.

* * *

> _I think I felt you watching. With Jude, that is._
> 
> _I am sure you judge me. I am sure you think she is horrendous, for what she does to people. She is. But I don’t care._
> 
> _You once said a being like me can’t have a change of heart. You were right. My change is purely selfish. I don’t want to_ _keep this_ _world because I have become a hero, like you. I just want_ _a world where I can be happy. Where I can feel._
> 
> _I want someone to hold me. And I have no one but her._
> 
> _Will you h_ _old_ _someone for me, Gertrude? I know_ _people are harder for you than cats._ _But if you could find someone, I would like it._

* * *

Gertrude hugs an estranged cousin at a funeral she hadn’t planned on going to. Someone she hasn’t seen in years, and won’t after this. Someone she doesn’t care for, Agnes knows, and never will.

Still, she holds this person tight for a long moment, and Agnes gets to feel their weight as a solid mass in her arms as opposed to a shifting, laughing wax face. She feels arms wrapping around her tightly and holding her like this moment is precious.

“I want you to know how much strength you have, for being able to go on like this,’’ Gertrude says, and Agnes thinks it’s not to the family member in her arms. “You have so much strength. I wish you didn't need it so much.’’

* * *

Gertrude sends solution after solution. Pages ripped out of cursed books, that Agnes has to manage with tongs lest they evaporate before she gets to read them. Artifacts of blood or binding or shielding, that she has to touch with her own hands to assess.

They all burn.

* * *

> _You have this situation down as a win-win, don't you Gertrude? I think I know you well enough by now._
> 
> _You think that perhaps one of these things will truly defang the Lightless Messiah for good, leaving me an ordinary woman unable to destroy the world. But if not--then you are destroying dangerous artifacts in a very convenient and safe way. How very like yourself._
> 
> _I…_
> 
> _I wish you…_
> 
> …
> 
> _T_ _hank you for the hug, Gertrude._

* * *

The next tape from Gertrude is short and serious.

> _Perhaps you are right. Perhaps all of these artifacts and spells are a waste of time. I think, now that my knowledge is growing, in order to give you your touch back, we would have to cut you off completely from your Cult. But I don’t know if you could survive such an action._
> 
> _Tell me what you are willing to risk. I might have a ritual to cut you off, and throw them off your track for good. But it may prove fatal. Are you willing to risk your life?  
> _

Agnes listens again and again, burns it, and clicks record.

Together, they make a plan.

* * *

Agnes didn't plan for Jack Barnabas. She wasn't looking to find comfort in another person, not this late into her life. Not after so many failures. It just... he found her, and wanted her. And so he became another desperate bid on her part. Like Jude, but in the opposite way.

If she can get empty, melting touches without any tenderness from one person, perhaps she can supplement it with another contrasting experience.

Jack is all tenderness and normality. He is so different from everyone she has known. Jude, Gertrude, Diego, Fielding--all of them are hardened people. Killers with flint in their hearts and fire in their hearts, ever calculating the next move in some grand game.

But Jack is--

Jack stops to pet stray dogs he sees on the street. He jumps at scary parts in movies. He likes to sit at the edge of fountains and stir the water with his fingers. He cannot truly know her, but he smiles at her like no one has.

“You’re beautiful,’’ he tells her, between stammers.

“I think you’re more beautiful,’’ she tells him plainly.

And he goes tomato red, and buries his face in his hands.

He is so delicate. And so, so young, with so much to lose. It calls to her blood, urging her to take and destroy. She holds off, but flutters around him like a moth. Perhaps, she thinks, she can leech from that softness from the distance she keeps, and never need destroy him.

(She is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.)

* * *

> _I liked him, Gertrude. No normal person has ever just... asked to know me, before. No abnormal person either, really. Jude doesn't ask w_ _hat I think_ _. Or how I feel. Or Arthur,_ _or_ _Diego,_ _o_ _r...you._
> 
> _Was I wrong, to kiss him? I thought it would be beautiful for at least a moment. I thought that there would be some reprieve, before the pain set in. Like in a fairy tale. But I regretted it the second I--_
> 
> _He was so scared, Gertrude. He was scared and in pain. And I did that to him._
> 
> _..._
> 
> _Please. If I don't survive our plan, will you take care of him?_

* * *

It hurts to be smothered. 

Agnes hangs. She watches their faces, insensible, as they watch and wait ash her heart stops beating and her lungs burn.

"She's gone,'' Arthur says at least. "Pulse is flat.''

Agnes watches them file out. She wonders if any of them will mourn, but knows they will not.

Jude and Diego are the last ones out, but neither shed a tear. And perhaps this is a final meal for their god, the complete desolation of a vision ruined. And the desolation Agnes feels, watching the people who filled her life leave her body behind.

Agnes hangs there for nine days before the paramedics find her.

* * *

Agnes wakes in a house close to the sea.

The first thing she sees is a tape recorder, with a tape right next to it. Her throat feels like it’s collapsing and her limbs are weak, but Agnes puts it in and presses play.

> _Agnes._
> 
> _It seems our plan has worked with nary a hitch. It took more work on my end of the ritual than I initially thought it would, but it seems the result is as we hoped. I am as surprised as I am sure you are._
> 
> _I am sorry I c_ _ould not be there._ _I believe your recovery will be smooth, but I have numbers on the fridge that you can call should you experience a medical emergency._
> 
> _Congratulations on your new life, and don't forget to destroy this tape. There is a trash compactor in the kitchen that should do the job._

Agnes is not sure why Gertrude mentions the last bit. Then, she holds the tape to her chest as she always does, and nothing happens.

No smell of burning plastic. No melting.

Agnes gasps, and the tape drops to the ground.

* * *

The first thing Agnes does is grab a pillow and squeeze it. She feels the pressure of it, and cries into it.

She feels the pressure of eyes upon her, a watcher in the back of her skull sharing this moment with her. A presence she has come to know and welcome, in the sparse moments it finally stretches out to know her.

_Gertrude._

And then, almost shyly, the presence is vanishes.

* * *

Agnes goes out in search of a cat to pet—or some other small animal. Along the way, she lets herself feel.

She trails her finger along the edge of fountain water, and it does not evaporate.

She goes to the ocean, and draws in a breath without the smell of sulfur or the taste of ashes. She feels the sand in her fingers without it melting into glass. She rolls in the nearby grass and feels the delicacy of each individual blade of it against her skin.

Agnes drinks black coffee with room for cream, just like how Gertrude takes it. It tastes slightly different to her own tongue than it does to Gertrude’s, she realizes. Bitter and harsh, with subtleties that she could never notice before. Where she lays her hand on the table, there are no scorch marks.

“Gertrude,’’ she says out loud, not caring who might hear or what they’ll think of her. “Gertrude, it’s so different from your own! Are you feeling this?’’

She does not feel Gertrude’s gaze in the back of her head. She closes her eyes, and sees Gertrude going about her business as per usual. Filing, writing illegible cyphers, hunting down artifacts and books and explosives. But it is hazy, and the vision leaves quickly.

For a moment, Agnes wonders if Gertrude cares what she does, now that she is no longer a threat.

Agnes finally finds an old grey tomcat at a bookstore. He tolerates how clumsy she is and climbs in her lap. Her arms have never held a living thing, so she struggles for a second with how to balance him, before he settles in.

“There,’’ she says. Her hands are clumsy, and her words are clumsier. She doesn’t know what to say, so she mimics what she’s heard Gertrude croon in that soft voice she tries not to let anyone hear. “There, there.’’

And then, with that simple gesture, they are somehow connected again.

Agnes closes her eyes, and reaches out. In a second, she out of her body and in an office. She feels the ache of her back and neck, head hanging heavy on her shoulders.

“Gertrude,’’ she says out loud. “Gertrude, talk to me.’’

Agnes feels Gertrude inhale, and feels her lungs burn. Agnes jumps, and then abruptly the connection ends.

The curse, it seems, has not ended for Gertrude.

* * *

Somehow after that, Gertrude still is surprised when Agnes follows her into the tunnels again and corners her, like she did on their first meeting.

“Agnes.’’ Gertrude sounds flat, weary.

Gertrude has changed over the years in ways that Agnes couldn’t see through their bond. Her hair is now shock white, her back hunched, and wrinkles lining her face. She is wizened and worn down, and yet again Agnes’s heart jumps to see her as it did to see young and beautiful Jack.

“I expected some—some price. Some horrendous toll,’’ Agnes says. “Death. Or at least, all of my years catching up to me, making me frail and bent over. But there was none of that, so—I really stopped thinking there was a price.’’

Gertrude inhales, and Agnes can hear the pain in the gesture. “There is always a price,’’ she says. “At any rate, you need to stay out of London. Your little cult hasn’t all been dealt with, yet. They might still fund you.’’

“And what if they do?’’ Agnes asks, testily. “I wanted to see you with my own eyes. To speak with you face to face.’’

“About what?’’

Quiet. Agnes looks down for a second, and then up to where Gertrude’s stare has never wavered. She has seen so much of Gertrude, but still cannot guess her thoughts.

“About what,’’ Agnes echoes, flatly. As though they would have nothing to talk about. “It’s been years, Gertrude.’’

Gertrude sighs, a note in her voice sounds apologetic.

“Are you happy with he results, then?’’

“Yes!’’ Agnes says. “Yes, I’m happy.’’

“Then stay out of London,’’ Gertrude says impatient. “Don’t cut your happy new life short with foolishness.’’

“You really don’t get it,’’ Agnes laughs. “I want--

She steps forward, so they are a foot apart. But Gertrude recoils from her. She throws her elbow over her mouth, and turns her head to the side, as though to shield herself.

“Gertrude?’’ Agnes reaches a hand out, without touching. “I can’t burn you now. You know that.’’

“Don’t.’’

Gertrude’s voice is clipped, as though she can’t bear to say more. Only then does Agnes look down, and see where Gertrude’s hand has reached to grasp a wooden beam supporting the tunnels.

Scorch marks.

It only takes a moment for Agnes to understand: Gertrude will never get to pet a cat again.

* * *

They leave the tunnels.

There is a long silence, filled with the weight of choices made and prices paid. Finally, they reach a park with a beautiful view of a lake, and they walk.

Perhaps it was not the wisest to the leave the tunnels. But they both wanted to meet somewhere beautiful, at least once.

“There’s always a price,’’ Gertrude repeats to her her. “A—maintenance, of what the Desolation took from you, at least, or it wouldn’t have let you go. And we were already connected, so the switch was… a simple matter.’’

“You didn’t tell me.’’ And then, more softly. “You didn’t have to do that for me.’’

“It made logical sense. The life you want, against the life I’ve always chosen. The Beholding also balances it, to some extent. Just to stop me from burning files, I suspect. But still, it makes life easier for me than it was for you.’’

Agnes looks at her.

“And if I am being honest with myself,’’ Gertrude says, “I spent more time destroying and burning than I did holding people already.’’

“Gertrude.’’

“It’s hardly a sacrifice. I would even say it’s useful at times. Anyway, you need to leave London until we can--’’

“Gertrude!’’

Gertrude stops and goes quiet. Then, softly and without looking Agnes in the eye, she asks, “Why don’t you go find that coffeeshop boy? He made you happy.’’

Agnes stares at her. “You don’t understand.’’

“I can’t say how it’ll go with him, or how he feels about the matter. But you can try, now.’’ Gertrude takes in a deep breath. “There is enough of a chance he’ll be forgiving, and you can build something.’’

Agnes decides to forgo words. Instead, she grabs Gertrude again by shoulders. She feels the heat burning through Gertrude’s clothes, the scorching Desolation that has consumed everything Agnes ever threatened to love in her entire life.

“Wait,’’ Gertrude says. “Don’t hurt yourself.’’

“I wanted to experience it all with you,’’ Agnes says, finally. “Life, touch. I always imagined it with you.’’

Gertrude’s eyes turn sorrowful. Agnes’s lets go with one hand, so she can hover it just an inch away from where she wants to caress Gertrude on the cheek.

“Did you ever think about it? At all?’’ Agnes asks. “Was it just me?’’

For a long moment, Gertrude stares back at her, looking as though she is calculating a thousand different possibilities behind her eyes, and the weight of the world rests on each one. Finally, she speaks.

“It wasn’t just you.’’

Agnes was born of the Desolation. She was fashioned to be as pure an incarnation as ever could be. Now, she wonders if that still may hold true. If by some loophole, her nature means the fire in Gertrude won’t hurt her now. If she could touch Gertrude and be the only one who could do so painlessly.

Perhaps not. Agnes decides that it won’t stop her either way.

She leans down, takes Gertrude by the chin, and pulls her into a kiss.


End file.
